CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Cowardice and Timing
She worried about what she would tell her father upon coming home from school early the day before, but as it turned out, he didn't even notice. Alfred Lovejoy never quite bounced back in one day; if the man went down, he went down hard, and he sat in his office, staring at one article for the better part of four hours before going outside, taking a walk, and talking to his wife, staring at the clouds.
And though he felt a great deal better when he returned, he didn't know his daughter was in her room, trying to write herself to sleep at two o'clock in the afternoon.
She started out writing about her mother, asking herself the questions she asked herself every year-what was her mother's name, how did her mother look, how did her mother's voice sound? She needed these questions, and more importantly, needed to know she knew the answers to them.
But somehow, once she answered her own questions, she found herself writing about Rob.
When she finally emerged from her room in time to fix a cold supper for herself and her father, it was well into the evening, and she hadn't slept a wink. But she had come to a few unsettling conclusions.
One was that she had written more about Robert than she had about her mother.
Another was that she'd been rude to Rob that morning, purposely or no. There was no excuse for such distance, no reason.
The last thing she realized was that she was being a bloody coward. She hated that part of herself, that cringing, hiding part of herself who reveled in her weirdness simply because it was a means to hide. A means not to live.
She sat the sandwich down in front of her father and spoke while she still had his attention.
"Do you ever wish you hadn't met mother?"
There was no hesitation, no absence, no forgetfulness, no hiding in his eyes when he looked at her. This time, he was really paying attention, because Alfred Lovejoy hated cowardice just as much as his daughter did.
"No," he said simply, forthrightly. "Because that, love, would be completely ridiculous and ridiculously wasteful. Death means nothing when compared to what precedes it. Disappointment means nothing compared to the hope that comes before it."
~~~
He slept poorly and dreamed vividly-a beautiful train materializing where there was no platform, a blond head ducked behind an upside-down magazine, a dark-haired boy with serious, vibrant green eyes, a curly-haired girl with her hands on her hips-
And through it all, a wistful blonde with big, pensive eyes focused on him, paired with a feeling in the pit of his stomach, akin to butterflies-
He jerked awake from a jarring scene with a giant chess board, broken pieces, a sense of impending danger.
Rob sat up in bed, breathing so hard he choked for a moment, his fists clenching in the sheets. He put the heels of his hands to his forehead, trying to clear his mind. "Stressed out a bit, eh?" he asked himself, his voice shaking. It was school, he reckoned, tests and lessons and football games.
And Lucia. Of course, Lucia and all her bloody questions. She'd disappeared sometime the day before-(just after she turned in her article, he reminded himself glumly)-and he hadn't seen her since.
And people wondered why he preferred to spend his time alone. His own company might be dull, but it was at least safe.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Rob looked at the clock and knew he'd never go back to sleep.
He'd lost too much training time the last week, so he'd just go and make it up.
~~~
His mouth was set in an uncharacteristically hard line, his posture tense as he strode down the hall.
Rob Wesley, it seemed, had little to be happy about. Hew as going to have to sit through supper with that monumentally unparalleled git Drake Mallory, who Rob was strongly starting to suspect was sniffing around his sister; his team had absolutely no motivation or interest in the next day's game, as he'd been the only one training that morning. And Lucia Lovejoy-well, Lucia had more likely than not taken his story and ran for the hills.
So she was the only person-and somehow the last person-he wanted to see obscuring his path in the middle of the hall before first bell. He'd worked himself to the point of exhaustion already that morning, hoping it would take his mind off her and those inexplicable dreams. But all it did was let his guard down, so when he saw her, she was completely incapable of saying a word. He merely looked at her, his eyes big and questioning as she looked back at him with the same expression.
And yet, no matter how much it was needed, there was no chance for words.
"Captain!"
Both Rob and Lucia jerked at the boisterous voice filling the hall, breaking eye contact and standing away from one another as if by instinct, unable to stand side by side.
Rob looked at the several members of his team approaching him with something very close to exasperation. "Trained this morning," he said matter-of-factly. It sounded stupid when phrased like that. Why couldn't he just speak up and tell them to get their arses in gear and take a little bloody initiative?
Because he thought it his responsibility to play well enough for the whole team.
"Great," the first year who had so fawned over him said, bobbing up and down on his toes and thrusting a large garment bag at Rob. "The guys said to give this to you."
"The guys" apparently referred to the upperclassmen in the back of the throng-good enough blokes as far as football went, but a bit hard to tolerate off the field. They stood with foolish grins and arms crossed over their chests, and Rob felt impatient and embarrassed and acutely aware of his not-girlfriend standing just behind him.
"What's all this, then?" he asked, terribly discomfited.
"It's for the masque!" the first-year exclaimed, all too happy to divulge the idiocy of it all. "Holforth tradition dictates we get to pick your costume."
"Now all you need is to find a date," another teammate piped up, staring critically at Lucia.
She felt her cheeks burn but found she couldn't speak. She hadn't even mentioned Rob or the masque to Gen, how was she about to defend herself-or Rob-in front of his teammates?
A beat of silence passed, and Rob wondered if she'd say anything or if he was supposed to (she was the one who asked, he thought irritably, she can speak up) and suddenly he was annoyed with her for her silence and for not telling anyone and for chatting his ear off one day and leaving him empty-handed the next.
"Yeah, well," he said nonchalantly, "I thought I had one."
And this seemed to be enough for his team, who laughed and pushed and crowded down the hall, leaving him standing with a garment bag in his hands and that feeling of her behind him, her disappointment matching somewhere right along his.
She wanted to be angry that he hadn't said anything, but how could she?
It would only be more cowardice.
"Rob," she said, reaching out a hand to him, stung when he jerked away, the heavy bag draped over his arms.
He looked angry now, and tired, and confused, and she wondered if that could possibly be all her fault, or even partly her fault, and how could she feel a small gladness at that? At her power over him?
It bore thinking on.
"Your timing is bloody spectacular," he said stiffly.
He'd known something was the matter the day before, had known it in his heart, and now, seeing her dejected before him, he knew it with more certainty.
And that certainty made him ache, and in aching, he grew more frustrated.
He leaned down and looked her in the eye. "You can ask me all the questions in the world you want," he said, his arms moving unknowingly to crumple the garment bag to his chest, "But until you start making statements instead of asking questions, I can't tell what's wrong with you."
He walked down the hallway, and without turning around, he added, "I can't tell what's wrong with us."
She stood in the spot where he'd left her even after first bell rang, and wondered how she could be even remotely pleased that he was upset.
He'd called them "us."
Things couldn't be too wrong.